


here there be pirates and many a treasure

by Omorika (Zercalo)



Series: Neverending Stories [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Brothels, Entrapment, M/M, Pirate Derek Hale, Pirates, Prostitution, Student Stiles, Swordfighting, Thief Stiles Stilinski, Treasure Hunting, trickery and deceit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 23:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12398673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Omorika
Summary: Scott and Stiles embark on a quest to save Allison Argent from the clutches of the infamous pirate Seawolf!(But seriously.)





	here there be pirates and many a treasure

**Author's Note:**

> If this sounds familiar, it's because it's a REPOST 'cause I wanted it under my real name and I couldn't figure out a better way to do it.

The shallow cave is Allison's place. When they were only children, she'd come out here to watch for the upcoming ships and wait for her father to come home. Later, she shared her spot with Scott, and somehow he feels it's fitting for him to wait for her return in the cave. The weather isn't the nicest today, the wind's been restless since dawn. It's not bad enough to ruin Allison's arrival, though, so Scott squints across the water, hopeful.

The entire thing is unnecessary. He doesn't care for her dowry, for the nice dresses and linen she's parted on a month long trip to acquire. He only cares she comes by morning so they could be married the next day and live together forever.

“Scott!” comes a voice. The sea is loud down here, but Scott doesn't need to hear it perfectly to know who's calling. Excited – even surprised, through that might not be so nice of him – he gets up, hops easily over the wet, slippery stones and lands on the sand just in time for Stiles to fall into his arms.

“You're here,” he says warmly.

“You're getting married,” Stiles chides, holding onto him firmly. “Where else would I be?”

It's been almost two years since he's been home, though. He hasn't answered most of the letters Scott's been sending to the address up north in the city. But Scott doesn't point that out, because it doesn't matter any longer. His best friend - his sworn brother - is home for the wedding and his heart is so full it might burst.

“It's good to see you,” he says instead, honestly.

“Yeah, you too. I hear you're a Second Mate on an Argent ship now. How's that been?”

Scott flushes in pleasure. The connection to the Argents notwithstanding, he's earned that position.

“Good, good. The maps are killing me – so many times I wish you're there with me when they're due for an update – but training the new crew members is really good. I enjoy it. How long since you've arrived?”

“Just now, really. I've been to the house first but...” Stiles makes a face, and it's pained.

“I'm sorry. There was nothing to be done, the storm collapsed the roof while I was at sea.”

Stiles shrugs his shoulder, like the old house isn't all he has left of his father. “It was ancient. I'll build a new one when I come back.”

When he comes back. Which, Scott suspects in his darker moments, will be never. The plan is that Stiles finishes all those schools up in the city and comes back to be the doctor their little bay desperately needs, but... He hates the life they have here. He hates sailing, and he's been hating the sea like the fiercest enemy ever since it took his father a decade ago. Scott wants him home, close by, but he suspects that Stiles has found a better life for himself out there. A more fitting life, life with many things that can occupy that big, scary brain of his.

He doesn't say anything about that, either. As Allison's pointed out once he confided this fear, at least they'll have someplace to send their children to in winters, when the humidity does more damage than good to the lungs.

“We'll build it together,” he promises, just in case he's wrong.

“Come on, then,” Stiles says, pulls him by the arm in the direction of his house. “Tell me all about the expressions the Argents made once they realized there's no changing Allison's mind about you.”

Of course, two years of absence do not erase a lifetime of purest brotherly connection and understanding, do not change the fact that Stiles has, in fact, grown up here with Scott – and knows where to find a laugh with no trouble.

So they talk about the Argents and their attempts to persuade their only daughter to give up on the poor Scott as they walk back home slowly, fighting the wind all the way up, and continue to swap stories through the dinner and well into the night. Stiles tells him strange tales of huge libraries, dirty orphan thieves, unfamiliar dishes and brews, the tiny room he's been sharing with three other students, herbs that grow far away from the salt tainted soil, in mountains and on riverbanks.

As they talk, Scott keeps one eye on the window, which overlooks the small bay, but he goes to bed still in the state of an excited expectation, not foreseeing the dark days awaiting them all.

***

Stiles wakes to the sound of the bells. He's been still upright, head leaned against the wall above Scott's bed, when he's fallen asleep. The past three days have been hard, the way days so often are in the lives of seafarers. He's been feeling happy for them since the day he's gotten Scott's letter about the wedding and he's come home only to help Scott deal with the grueling wait for news.

Allison's ship hasn't arrived in time. It's been three days since it was due, and it hasn't arrived yet. With every day, with every passing hour, it is less and less likely that it ever will.

Stiles may have come home to help his friend through a funeral.

He puts on shoes, resists the tiny tingle in his fingers at the sight of Melissa's thin golden necklace left on a nail sticking from the wall and goes outside. There's a bark on the docks that hasn't been there before – it likely means news. Stiles hurries to find Scott in the gathered crowd.

There's something broken in the way Scott looks at him, but he says, “She's alive. She's...”

Still, it can't be good news. Stiles leads Scott away from the people, where he can get as much air as he needs.

“What's happened?”

Scott's face twists with hate and anger. “Seawolf.” It's one word that contains most of the problems people of their town – and the entire gulf and wider – have. The notorious pirate who's stolen so much of their goods, caused the death of so many of their people. “The ship has sunk, some good people have lost their lives – but he's taken Allison and her aunt with him. She's alive. I have to go get her, Stiles. I have to – I'll board the bark, for as long as it'll take me, then...”

“Easy, there,” Stiles says. Scott is not good with making plans. He'll get himself killed on this quest – but even though his helpless eyes seem to indicate he's well aware of that, he will try and save Allison anyway. At any cost.

On the day the news of his father's demise have reached him, Stiles has sworn he'd never get on a ship again, never be a seafarer. This oath has been proving good for his health so far and he's glad he's made it, is gladly keeping it. But if there's one person in the whole world he'll break it for, then that's Scott.

So Stiles says, “That will accomplish nothing. We need a boat – I've seen a caravel anchored, does it belong to the Argents?”

“Yes,” Scott says, the lost quality of his expression being slowly replaced by confusion.

“I'll go get that – you go back in there, find volunteers. We'll need a good crew to pull this off, so make sure there are some good sailors among them.”

It's a suicide mission, that's what it is. But Scott doesn't question it at all, animated now there's a whiff of a plan in sight. He grasps Stiles' shoulders, eyes suddenly ablaze, “You'll come with me?”

“I came home to see you married, Scott. I'm not leaving until I do. Go. Find us a crew. I'll get us a ship.”

Scott nods, lets him go. They each take off in different directions to accomplish their tasks.

In honesty, Stiles has picked a harder task for himself. So many of their people have lost everything to the pirates – to Seawolf himself. There'll be plenty volunteers for this, and that's not even counting on Scott's unquestionable charisma that has people just itch to get his approval. He'll be done in minutes.

Yet getting hands on a ship is not going to be that hard, either. It's Gerard's daughter and granddaughter they're setting out to rescue. That'll help. And so will the pile of gold Stiles is keeping at the bottom of his luggage.

The money was meant as Scott's wedding gift, to give him some independence from the Argents. Scott hates the fact that Allison is coming with a fat dowry because he feels he should be the one to provide for her, not the other way around. And there are always mean people talking that he's only marrying her for her money – that she should find a better fit for herself, a wealthy merchant or such. They were supposed to build a house for themselves with that gold, so at least Scott wouldn't have to live in one of the houses the Argents have decided to let them have.

It'll help grease the wheels now.

The conversation with Gerard is sickening. He says he's worried and in distress, but doesn't act like it one bit. He bargains, and sets too high of a renting price for a period of three months – but then. He hasn't built his fortune by being mellow. Stiles has been expecting that – that's why he hasn't asked for a loan on the caravel.

Just to be an asshole enough to match Gerard, Stiles unflinchingly uses the old man's dramatic pacing to sweep his desk off everything worth raising a hand for. When he finally manages to strike a deal that only leaves him with about a handful of gold for the trip itself, Stiles' pockets are full of Gerard's trinkets.

Of course, the man doesn't notice it at all. Stiles has had a superb training, and it'll take more than a clever merchant and shipowner to catch him stealing.

At the front door, Victoria Argent is standing tall in her luxurious blue dress, waiting. For him, apparently, since she focuses her weird, intense eyes on his face as soon as he comes near her.

“So Scott McCall isn't quite as useless as I pegged him to be,” she says icily. Stiles tries to contain the bristle she's causing on him, but it's hard.

“No, ma'am, not quite as useless.”

She doesn't care to acknowledge his sarcasm. “My husband is dead, by all accounts. And my daughter is at a pirate's mercy. You realize that I will be very grateful if you somehow do manage to pull off a miracle and bring her home.”

“I don't need an extra initiative, ma'am. Scott is going after her no matter what. And I will follow him, even into a certain death.”

“You could use help, though,” Victoria says, though her eyes now look through him. “I will see you in the morning. You can sail out at dawn.”

She means to see them off. Stiles nods. Allison is her only daughter, so he cannot begrudge her this. Victoria moves aside to let him leave the house.

*

Scott has had so many volunteers, he's had to refuse a few. They still show up before dawn to help load the cargo – feel useful in any way. People also bring them money. Everyone knows they'll need it, so they've dug out their savings, small as they are, to show support.

It's almost time to depart when Victoria Argent shows up. She's not alone, she's got two of their servants with her – each carrying a crate. She motions them to open them once Scott and Stiles come out to meet her. They're full of money – all sorts of money used in the harbors all across the gulf. There's gold, and silver, there are notes they use far down south, and coins with the king's face they use mostly deep into the land. Stiles almost sags with relief – because the only way they could possibly track down this pirate is by bribing people for information. And he is isn't sure he could steal enough without drawing attention to them and their little mission.

Unlike Scott, who looks baffled, Victoria Argent is well aware of that. She says brusquely, “You find my daughter and I will give you a fleet.”

Before Scott can protest that that's not what he wants, or needs, she turns and walks away. Her servants, now empty-handed, follow her.

Stiles takes one of the crates – it's heavy, but he can make it. “Come on, Scott. We have to go.”

By the time they sail out, even those volunteers who've come out to help aren't there on the dock any longer. Of course not. No one's willing to be the one who's jinxed the quest. But they are all looking out of their windows as the sails rise under Scott's firm command and the wind creates distance between the ship and their small, warily hopeful village.

*

First they need to find this pirate. He keeps to the gulf, everyone knows that – but that means little. The gulf is huge. Pirates also need supplies; food, water, rum, medicine, and other various items. Bumboats don't like to deal with pirates. Spoils obviously make the need to anchor in a harbor and shop scarcely necessary, but they still have to do it occasionally.

So their first step is to catch a trail of Seawolf's pirate ship, and then... Well, Stiles doesn't have a plan just yet. He'll come up with something after he hears more about this guy, his merry and bloodthirsty band of rum-drinkers and their habits.

“You've always had a steady hand, Stiles,” Scott calls him on their third day at sea. “Come try this.”

“I don't know how to keep maps, Scott. You know this.”

He knows Scott is determined to give him something to do. This will not deter him. But Scott also knows he's collecting knowledge like shiny coins, and Stiles isn't surprised when Scott smiles, “You will never have a better chance to learn how to, either. Or find a better man to teach you.”

The First Mate and navigator to Scott's captain is a man named Myers, an old farer. When he's learned who Stiles was, he's muttered, “Used to sail with your father. Fine man, he was.” That has been all interaction they've had, but the disapproval the man was oozing has been obvious.

Stiles has no plans of following into his father's footsteps, but he could do with less tension around the small caravel. The man seems hopeful, Scott determined to give him something to busy his mind with. And he might as well learn something useful on this trip.

“Fine. Teach me the fine art of keeping maps.”

Stiles leaves the cup empty of strong black tea he's been drinking aside, nears the wide table in the middle of the captains' cabin and busies his mind with the fascinating aspects of nautical navigation. In the next few days, he masters the mapping, and the mariner's compass, the back quadrant, the sextant and all other available tools for making note of the position they're sailing in and the speed the ship is making.

“I'd bet you won't be able to raise your head at the first sign of a tempest,” says Myers, in the middle of showing Stiles how to manage a timekeeper.

“A tempest, like the one we've had yesterday?” Stiles replies with a smug smirk.

Scott laughs in his chair nearby. “The first time we were on a long distance vessel – what were we, thirteen? We spent half the trip with Stiles here keeping my head up, cleaning after me and eating all my nuts.”

Stiles smiles fondly – that was one of the few trips he'd taken on his father's ship. Scott and him were admitted as wipers, the most inexperienced of the crew. They had to clean after the older sailors. Stiles was mostly just happy he got to spend that much time knowing his father was well and close by, but Scott... Scott fell in love with the sea, even through the haziness of his intense sickness.

“It's not as if you were able to keep any nuts in your stomach, Scott.”

“True. But instead of talking about my shameful beginnings, let's go back to your apparent inborn compatibility with the life of a seafarer.”

“Still trying to make me break my oath, are you?”

“Well, you're here with me now. You know I have to try.”

Stiles shakes his head, turns back to Myers. “If you had told me about your bet, Master, I would have made sure you won it. No one ever looks in the bucket if they don't have to – loud heaving noises and some bed rest would have convinced them easily of my sickness.”

“You slippery little slacker,” Myers says. “There are better uses for your time than trickery in the name of a few silver pieces. And don't call me Master.”

Stiles is growing rapidly fond of this old man. Even if he is determined to make an honest man and a decent sailor out of Stiles.

The days go by them quickly in this manner, until they reach the opposite side of the gulf.

*

The boiling hot day is working in his favor. Stiles is wearing a thin sack over his shoulder, leaving the other one free and uncovered by the rough cotton that slides off just enough to show an ugly scar. He was knifed in his early days with the Guild, when his skills were still no match for his cockiness. The mark will come in handy now.

He walks slowly through the market, takes his time to look at merchandise he has little to no intention of buying - unless he thinks the peddler will tell him something useful - and waits until someone bites.

The markets in harbor cities thrive on gossip and curiosity. There are plenty of takers.

“Nasty,” a woman behind a messy row of herb-filled jars says, eying his scar greedily. “And on one so handsome.”

Stiles hastily covers his shoulder, as if attempting to salvage his modesty. “Such is the life at sea.”

She frowns at him, measures the width of his shoulders and the remains of the sunburn. “You're no seaman.”

“Was a passenger when the ship was attacked,” Stiles tells her darkly, resenting a little her complete dismissal of the possibility. “It was the worst of luck.”

“Ah,” she nods, makes her pitch, “I have ways to relieve the feeling of tightness, should you need help with that. Does it hurt, still?”

“Feels rather numb,” Stiles says truthfully, to keep her talking because her chattiness might mean she's well informed. “But it hinders movement in my left side.”

He's lucky his dominant hand is his right – though hindrance or not, he could and would put his left one into the pocket of any commissioned officer close enough to bump shoulders with and get away with it.

The woman digs up a bottle of oil. “This will help – but you need to rub it in well.”

Stiles isn't sure how much he believes in her medicine, but hands her coins anyway. At least the oil smells nice when he opens the bottle to sniff it, like a sweet spice from the east.

“I'm willing to try just about anything,” he tells her, as if absentmindedly as he rubs a drop of the oil into the back of his hand. “Can't find decent work like this. And instead of giving you some credit, mentioning you've crossed paths with Seawolf himself and survived makes it like you have the plague.”

“It's the women,” the woman hisses. Her voice is low, but eager to share. “ _The Capitoline_ is full of all those women – bad luck for everyone.”

It's always been a matter of fascination how much the people of the sea are superstitious. This is the kind of information he's after, though, so the coins he's spent for the oil haven't been wasted. There are women – more than one – on the crew. No one would bother to mention if they were there kept slaves, for the pleasure of the men, because no one would know what the pirates keep locked on their ship.

Smile turning sharp, Stiles tells her, “Well, I hope I haven't rubbed any of it on you with my business.”

He nods and leaves her to the thought, pretty sure she's sorry she's sold him the oil.

Stiles starts a hundred conversations like this one, or similar enough, over the next few weeks, makes his way through a string of harbors. He needs to be careful, no one can notice him – there is a ship full of people, full of Scott's people and with Scott himself aboard, who will die if the word spreads. It takes patience and money, but since no one else has a better plan, they take him wherever the rumor sends him and wait for him to return with new ones.

In the evenings, when the markets close and the taverns fill with sailors, stevedores, and plain old drunks, Stiles buys lots of drinks he doesn't drink. When he notices that very distinct, familiar twinkle in the eye of certain patrons when they look at him, he gets friendly and buys a lot of drinks for them. The evenings often end with him leading the poor sod outside, where he exchanges a quick, filthy handjob for information and all the money and jewelry the man in question has on him.

This part of his work out in the harbors is something he takes to Scott as drunken rumbling. He doesn't want his best friend to know more than that – doesn't want him to get even a slightest glimpse into the life he has in the city.

It's been over a month of this – of snippets of information about _The Capitoline_ and Seawolf, the crew members and their movements. They are following a ghost trail, but at least they are not sailing aimlessly.

It's early into the evening, in a rather richly decorated tavern sitting just up the street from the docks, overlooking the harbor, when a stranger sits across from him, with an air of deliberation. He is well-kept, raised in riches, slick and clever – and just a single look at him puts Stiles at unease. This man doesn't look through him, doesn't look at him like he's something to devour in a drunken haze. This man looks straight into his eyes, and he sees exactly what's there – Stiles, in all his dark glory.

“I'll be buying tonight,” the stranger says. “I believe I finally have something to cheer to.”

Stiles nods his acceptance – because what else is he to do? “And that would be?”

“A conspirator,” the man says cryptically, paying for their drinks. “Someone with a common goal.”

“You believe we have a common goal?”

“I know we do. I've been keeping an eye on you, young thief.”

A surge of panic blinds Stiles for a second, and he almost misses the table when he puts his drink back on it. He murmurs, “Really?” recalling the exit points he's taken the notice of on entering the tavern.

“Seawolf,” the man says with a strange little smile. “Now, don't try and run on me. I can see your eyes, they're getting shifty. You seek information on our elusive pirate – I have them. Is it revenge you're after?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hope to board _The Capitoline_?”

“Become a pirate? Lord, no.”

“What, then?”

Stiles laughs. “Why would I tell you that?”

“Because, young thief,” the mans says easily, sipping his rum like it's the finest wine. “I've spent time on that wretched ship, until my morals clashed with the way things are done on it. I can give you all the information you need.”

This is an unusual stroke of good luck – presuming it's true. Stiles has to check it out. He has to make sure.

“And in exchange?”

The man finishes his drink unhurriedly. “The rest of this conversation, I think, is not for a place this crowded. I've a room rented upstairs – just on the right from the stairs. Finish your drink and join me there shortly – if you're interested.”

He leaves Stiles sitting there at the table. It almost feels too good to be true, but at the same time, he doesn't trust this man at all. Even if he's got information Stiles needs, anything he says about his own reasons for helping, anything he says about himself at all, will be a lie.

But he's dealt with shady, untrustworthy people before. And Scott's happiness is at stake here, not a handful of gold. Scott's happiness is always worth the risk. So Stiles gets up and follows upstairs.

The room is small, lit by a single candle. The man is standing near the window when Stiles walks inside, doesn't even turn to face him.

“So what are you after?” Stiles asks.

“There is something – an item – I have left behind in my haste to leave _The Capitoline_. I want it back.”

“So what? You want me to stop in the middle of a battle to retrieve your item?”

The man scoffs. “Don't be an idiot, thief. You and your little caravel are no match for a well armed, viscous and outstandingly organized pirate ship. You cannot attack it, you would never win an open battle.”

“So what do you suggest we do?”

“Entrapment,” the man turns to face him, eyes blazing with an unfamiliar kind of insanity. “I suggest you send someone to board _The Capitoline_ , become a part of the crew and destroy it from the inside.”

Insane this man might be, but that does sound like a perfect way to go about it. If you can get your hands on enough information. Which this man can, allegedly, provide.

“I'm listening,” he says, willing to show his interest.

“I am keeping track of their movement. I can tell you about the most important members of the crew, I can teach you the way to wiggle your way into the ship. I can tell you what you can use to lure the captain with, what kind of bait will work. All I need is that one item.”

“I am, as you've noticed, a thief. How do you know I won't double cross you?”

“Because, obviously, I can still point my finger at you. I might not be wanted on the ship, but a pirate bands are suspicious people. Even my word might cost you your life.”

Stiles doesn't ask what's so important about the item in question. It doesn't matter. The man can have it even if it's the detailed map to the greatest treasure in the world, no problem. As long as he actually helps.

“Why me?”

Amusement colors those otherwise colorless eyes. “Indeed, many people seek revenge against Seawolf. You, however. You are subtle. It took me weeks to figure out what you are up to. You are patient. Clever, I admit. And maybe most important of all, willing to get on your knees to get the job done.”

Stiles covers his flinch, or at least he hopes he does. Yes, he is willing to do whatever it takes. The training's thought him that. He doesn't like it, but he can do it, and do it well.

“So someone on that ship has got good taste,” he says cockily, to cover his discomfort.

“Someone does, yes. And with a right backstory and a good performance, I think you can get in easily enough.”

“A good performance?”

“Yes. I have some connections. I can pass you off as a stand in for his usual boy.”

“No.”

“No?”

“My Capitan can't know about that,” Stiles says. It's a lot to put in a shady stranger's hands, but it's not like the man doesn't already know about his methods. “I'm willing to do whatever once I am on the ship, to get close enough to get your item, to be able to set the trap – but not before that.”

The man is angry, his voice tight when he says, “Well, what else can you do?”

“I'm well on my way to become a medic.”

The man laughs, like it's a joke. When he notices Stiles' raised eyebrows, he stops. “Truly?”

“Yes. It's expensive, though, and I'm quite poor. Thus, the thieving.”

“Fine. I can work with that. It still must happen at the brothel, it's the only place I know he'll be at and I've worked long and hard to get an inside man there. We'll make it so you save his life – oh, yes. He will like that.”

“Well, then. I am not in this alone, so you must follow me back and meet my captain. Tell me at least something about this pirate crew before that, though. Tell me about Seawolf.”

There a strange amusement on the man's face again, and he says. “The most important thing you should know about him is that he doesn't exist.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Or more accurately, he does exist, but as a mere figurehead. Oh, he's useful enough in a fight or a raid, with his sword skills and the gloomy appearance. The rest, though – the leading of the crew, the planning, the masterminding – that's not him. He is simply not smart and crafty enough to pull it off.”

“Alright,” Stiles says slowly, because this – if true – is pure gold. “Who is the real captain of _The Capitoline_ , then?”

The man smiles again, that same odd amusement thick and slimy on his face.

“Her name is Laura.”

***

Stiles takes the man – who calls himself Peter – back to Scott.

“I don't like him,” Scott says with a frown, as Peter takes a sip of tea on the other side of the cabin.

“Me, neither, not a slightest bit,” Stiles admits. “But would you expect someone you like to know enough about Seawolf to be of any help?”

“True.”

Pitching his voice even lower, though there's no way Peter can hear him as it is, Stiles says, “Anyway, if this works, if it even only seems like it's working, you have to capture him and keep him here. Keep him unable to contact Seawolf and tell him about me.”

Scott nods, determined. “So what is the plan, once you board?”

“A promise of treasure, Peter says. I think he's right. I need to gain their trust and sell them a story of a yet undiscovered treasure to lure them in. The Blue Cave, I'm thinking.”

“Back home?”

They've spent a lot of the time swimming inside that cave as children, with the captivating blue light reflecting through it as a constant source of delight.

“Yes. Lure them to the familiar ground, a place any sailor on this ship knows by heart. Lure them into a trap, an awaiting army ready to bring them down. You will help me get on board of _The Capitoline,_ then go back home, Scott. Talk to Victoria Argent, tell her the plan. She will help you.”

“And leave you alone out here?”

“It's safer for everyone if I don't have to worry about you being noticed. It might take a few months to gain enough trust, though. Be patient. I will bring him – them, I guess – to you.”

“I trust you,” Scott says easily. And Stiles would perhaps rather he does not, not when he's not aware of what, exactly, has become of his best friend. But there's no denying that his loyalty to Scott comes first – before the school, before the Guild, before any personal gain. Scott might be placing his trust blindingly, but Stiles will see to it that his trust is justified.

“Well, then. Onto the details.”

It takes a whole week of listening, planning and forging before Stiles is finally ready. And just in time, because when they arrive at the harbor Peter has marked as the favorite place, _The Capitoline_ is already anchored.

**

The few times Stiles has been inside a brothel, he's been playing the whore to get close enough to his target. He's acting a customer now. Scott and some other members of his crew, and also Peter, are inside already when he's admitted into the lush foyer.

His clothes are tasteful, but ratty – indicating someone used to riches but out of luck. A spoiled son of a wealthy man, Peter has said. Father sent you to school, to make him proud, but you've tainted your name gambling and indulging in unseemly sexual acts indiscreetly. So now you're on your own, expelled from school and renounced by your family.

Stiles indulges in some revelry, as Peter's inside man takes Scott and a few others upstairs, to the room next to the one the pirate they are conning always takes. He knows the layout of the place, has seen drawings of it. The plan is to stage an attack on the pirate, so Stiles could save his life and fall into his good grace – Peter claims it'll work.

Acting a little drunk, Stiles climbs the stairs. Peter's man waves off the whore that's been tracing his steps, tells her he's got something ready for Stiles. He gives the sign they've agreed on, that the man they are waiting for has been brought through the back entrance and is inside his room. Stiles is supposed to wait for the commotion inside the room with Scott, but he needs to see this pirate first. He needs to take in his face, and give him a chance to remember Stiles', as well. A conversation, however short, can only help.

So instead of entering the room with Scott inside, he opens the door into the one he knows already holds the pirate.

The man waiting inside is younger than Stiles has been expecting. Obviously a man of sea, with his dark tan and strong body. There are a few tattoos, two golden earrings – far more modest than a crew member of _The Capitoline_ could afford. He eyes Stiles carefully when he stumbles inside and stares, wordlessly.

“I wouldn't think I'd be able to afford you,” Stiles finally breaks the silence. It's true – the persona he's in right now shouldn't be able to afford someone this fresh and healthy, this good looking. A brothel, if they ever get their hands on someone like this to sell, would earn a fortune on it. “Could I be in the wrong room?”

He offers an awkward smile, steps back toward the door. It should be enough – a clumsy stranger getting the wrong room. He knows he won't ever forget this guy, stretched on the bedding in a long white shirt and nothing else, but as for him, it's enough he doesn't forget Stiles in the next few hours. Stiles wraps his hand around the knob.

“No,” the man behind him says. “Don't leave.”

Hearth hammering in near panic at this close call, Stiles widens his eyes as innocently as possible and turns to look at him. Lord, but they don't make men like this up in the city.

“Oh?”

“As flattering as your presumption is, I am not all that expensive. Come here.”

He's lying. He is lying to keep Stiles inside. And whether he's suspicious or something else is driving him to play along, Stiles has no choice but to go through with his little story.

So he smiles, slowly, “Good.”

He shrugs his coat off, throws it over the chest at the bottom of the bed. His steps are determined now, sure. The pirate's gaze is firmly on him, expressionless. He remains still as Stiles approaches the bed, stands over him and this time freely, deliberately takes in every detail, every scar and curve of muscle.

“Real good,” he praises, honestly. He won't have to feign his interest to pull off this mess he's gotten himself into.

“What do you want?” the pirate asks lowly, head cocked a little.

“Your name, to start with.”

There's a flicker of uncertainty at that. Stiles lets him decide if he'll lie or not, sits on the edge of the mattress. He gives into the urge, runs his fingers across the exposed skin of the man's thigh. They bump over the pale, tight scar there. Under the thin material of the shirt, the man's interest is starting to show and the outline of it is enough to have Stiles fight to breathe normally.

“Derek.”

Eye darting to meet the steely gaze, Stiles repeats on a smile, “Derek.” His palm slips to the underside of Derek's thigh, where it is warm and smooth. “I want to kiss you.”

He looks up just to see the nod, a single downward jerk of Derek's chin. It's enough of a permission, so he bends low, puts his mouth over the scar tissue he's been stroking before. He leaves a wet mark on it, can taste the richness of the man's skin on his tongue even as he raises his head.

Derek's hand is wrapped so tightly around a handful of bedding, his knuckles are white. This brothel may be cleaner than most, but the whores who work here have obviously done wrong by this gorgeous man if he reacts to the slightest flicker of tongue so strongly.

There's a knock on the door, and they both startle badly at the sound of it. Derek gets out of the bed, fast as lightning. Stiles scrambles to follow, deeply sorry he couldn't continue.

“Oil,” Derek says, looking him right in the eye. “Stay here.”

He grabs the small pouch that's been sitting next to the pillow, manages to get to the door just as another knock comes. There's a young man on the other side, freshly bathed and beautiful with his dark hair and dark eyes. He smiles warmly at Derek, like an old friend, but all he gets in turn is the pouch of cluttering coins. Derek is true enough to his word, because he grabs the bottle of oil before he slams the door shut.

Derek pushes the bottle into Stiles' hands and returns to bed like nothing has happened. Like he hasn't just paid a pouch full of coins to get rid of his regular servicer. To be left alone with Stiles, to pretend he's a whore.

Stiles opens the bottle in his hands. The bitter smell of coconut fills his nose. “Uh. It's gone stale.”

“Not completely. It'll still do.”

“You have worryingly low standards, Derek,” Stiles tells him sharply, because it's true. “Take your shirt off and turn around.”

There's another inner debate, he can see it clearly on Derek's face. Eyebrows high in question and challenge, Stiles waits it out. What will it be, Derek? Will you keep playing?

Derek quickly gets rid of his shirt. The scars on his chest are hardly a surprise. Any of the wounds that left them could have killed this man – Stiles has no idea how he can possibly still be alive after going through all of that. But he is glad, at least for the moment.

“My customers, I've noticed, prefer I keep them covered.”

There's a question in that. Stiles smiles easily, “What sort of a student of medicine would that make me? On your stomach, Derek.”

There's no hesitation this time. Stiles takes out the bottle of oil he's bought a while ago, the one that helps with the tightness in old scars. It's of far better quality and it's better preserved than the brothel's oil. He takes his shoes and trousers off before climbing to bed to straddle Derek's thighs. He can more feel than hear the sigh of pleasure Derek's lets out at the contact.

Stiles has learned the basics of giving a good massage in school. But the most useful tricks he's been taught as a part of the training with the Guild. He takes his time pressing fingers into the aching muscles of Derek's shoulders, rubbing the oil relentlessly into one scar after the other. His reward – surprisingly satisfying – comes in the form of sighs and groans, in quiet hisses that couldn't be held back.

“On your back now,” Stiles instructs, lifts himself off just enough to allow the movement.

Derek looks wrecked when he lifts his heated gaze to Stiles. His face is flushed and curled around a relaxed half smile, mouth open and wet.

Stiles doesn't let that hurry his actions. Derek's front gets the same treatment, even if his cock strains upward and calls to attention. It'd be easy to cut this short, bring forward pleasure. But no.

“Perhaps I should be paying you,” Derek says as Stiles finally slides a little lower, settles between Derek's slightly spread legs.

“I get to choose in what I'll take my pleasure today,” Stiles tells him. “No judgment under this roof.”

“Even if it's just this?”

“Well... Perhaps I can get a little more from you, while I've got you here.”

His hands, slick with oil, slide finally to take a hold of that gorgeous cock that's been reaching for attention between them. As his fingers wrap around the shaft, Derek lifts his knees off the bed in a wordless, maybe even unconscious plea. The breathtaking openness of it makes Stiles dizzy with want, and he leans his forehead against Derek's lifted knee as he slowly moves the fingers of his right hand lower still. They are so slick and Derek offers barely any resistance in his relaxed enjoyment, that Stiles' thumb disappears all the way up to his knuckle with no trouble. Derek lets a reverent noise - a sob of relief, if Stiles is reading it right.

So he pushes on, busies his hands and soaks the noise he drags out, follows their lead as if they're beacons leading him to safety. But he keeps his pace slow and languid, knowing it will end but unwilling to let it end quite so quickly. He twists his fingers only every fourth, fifth time they slide inside Derek, keeps it as irregular as he can so that every time he brushes against whatever that's there that makes men like them mad with pleasure is a surprise, a gift.

But as enthralling as having this gorgeous man react to him like this is, it has to end. Stiles picks up his pace, only a little, allows his fingers to curls tighter, and then it's over.

Derek is glossy with oil and sweat, and short of breath, eyes closed against the last waves of pleasure. If those men Peter has hired come in right now, they might actually kill him.

This thought is surprising, sobering. Stiles takes his hands off and out of Derek with more force than necessary, managing to startle him.

“I think my time is up,” he says, apologetic. His voice is so rough he barely recognizes it as his own.

“It doesn't have to be,” Derek tells him quietly.

“Ah, but I suspect you are not a master of your own time, just as I am not a master of full pockets.” Stiles takes out the pouch of money, takes out a few gold coins and leaves them next to Derek's hip. “I will take another thing before I go, if you allow me.”

He thinks that Derek looks ready to allow him just about anything, even though clearly done with his release. But all Stiles wants to do with it in this moment is lean in and press a kiss; a light, chaste kiss that doesn't even taste of anything.

It catches him by surprise when Derek decides it's his turn to take some initiative. There are strong, rough hands in his hair, holding him close as Derek opens his mouth and deepens the kiss with a force and a purpose. Stiles has been barely holding off as it is, desperately aroused and on the edge, and fingers clutching his scalp, the press of teeth and stab of tongue in his mouth have him break down and keen. Derek huffs into his mouth, like maybe he thinks Stiles is being difficult, and flips him over to lie in bed with a charming ease.

“Dear Lord,” Stiles murmurs when his mouth is free to form words.

But his mouth is only free because Derek's taken his mouth lower – to bite shallowly at his shoulder as he impatiently pulls Stiles' clothes open. Stiles bites his lip, helpless to do anything but wait for the feeling of Derek's calloused hand on his erection. It never comes. Instead, Derek pushes himself lower on his elbow and easily wraps his lips around him. It's unexpected, and wet and tight, and Stiles shouts it all out, curling into himself with pleasure. He's had a mouth on him before, but never while this winded up, never by someone as irresistible and willing as this youngish pirate.

He finds his own release quickly and suddenly, like it's forced out him. Derek doesn't move for a long moment after he'd done, than looks down at him darkly.

“Now you can leave.”

“As soon as my legs start working again,” Stiles promises, mind hazy. But he doesn't move even after a few minutes, when Derek's settled next to him on the bed. They don't talk. There's nothing to say, really. After a few moments, they both start dressing in silence.

A noise comes from two sides – outside the window and in front of the door. It fits with the plan Peter has made, and Stiles only has enough time to think they're starting without me. Then he's jumping to his feet, grabbing for the iron candlestick to use as the weapon. Derek is up and dragging out a saber and a poniard from the bag earlier discarded by the bed. By the time Peter's men break inside, swords swinging, they are both ready to fight.

But, honestly, Stiles doesn't get to do anything. Derek is a vision of agility and grace as he slashes into the attackers with precision. He's moving like the blades grew with his hands, like he's made only for this, only to fight, and long before all the men are down, Stiles lets the candlestick fall from his hand, saddened.

It's only when everyone's on the floor when Stiles gets a moment to realize that not even one of the men is dead. None of the wounds Derek's inflicted are lethal.

“Friends of yours?” Derek says with a tight smile, and the second realizations strikes. They haven't been attacking Derek at all, they've all been going for Stiles. The only reason he's alive is because Derek put himself and his blades in their way.

Peter, that slimy little weasel.

Stiles rubs his neck, grimaces. “They might be, uh, after some money I owe.”

Derek pointedly looks at – wow, that's twelve – twelve people wriggling on the floor in different stages of bleeding out. “How much money?”

“A lot, really,” Stiles says, grabs for his coat even though his shirt is still open. “I should better go while I can.”

“Where?” Derek asks – demands.

“Anywhere. I need to be anywhere but here.”

Stiles turns toward the door, and Scott is standing there. He looks stricken and apologetic, almost horrified. Like he thinks Stiles would believe for a second he'd let these men come after Stiles if he's had any say in it. But Derek is moving to grab his own things and Stiles can't say anything to reassure Scott. He offers a quick smile, hopes it's enough.

Derek's heavy hand lands on his shoulder. “I can get you wherever you wish to go. You'll be safe with me.”

It's what they've hoped for – what Peter promised it'll happen. It's still hard for Stiles to believe this man would just take him along. He swallows thickly, says, “But you work here.”

Derek grins wildly, cockily, “Like you'd ever be able to afford me. Come on.”

He pushes on Stiles' shoulder and they move together. Scott lets them pass, even as his face looks like he'd rather chew through Derek's arm until it's detached from Stiles. There's nothing to do but follow Derek outside and down the cobbled streets toward the docks.

Stiles isn't sure if Peter never meant for Stiles to save Derek's life at all, or has this been an improvisation. It's worked wonderfully, either way, so Stiles can't be too upset with Peter - through he still hopes Scott's got him in chains for it.

Derek is walking with the poniard in hand, on the ready, like he's afraid more people will come out of shadows to attack them. Like Stiles is now his to protect.

_The Capitoline_ is huge up close, dark and glorious. People who have business nearby on the docks walk past her, not daring to even look up. But Derek is smiling to himself a little as they approach. This ship is his home, after all. He sheathes the poniard and helps Stiles board with practiced ease.

Some of the crew is on the dock, playing games or going about their everyday business. They give them mildly curious looks. Stiles takes a moment to think Alison is somewhere on this ship, before following Derek's sure steps toward the beautiful woman standing not far from the rudder, frowning at them.

According to Peter, this is his ultimate obstacle, the actual leader of this pirate gang. Seawolf's sister, Laura. Derek doesn't seem concerned as they come near. Stiles keeps close to him, wishing he'd taken time to fix his clothes at least.

It's too late, so he instead straightens his back and gets ready to do whatever he needs to do. He is so close. He's almost in.

He is only one step away from setting sail on _The Capitoline_.

**Author's Note:**

> But seriously, I barely made myself delete that other account. :(  
> (and yet, my attempts at writing old-fashioned English are no less hilarious!)


End file.
